Thoughts in winter stumble with
a stop-action rhythm
both jarring and comforting.
With hard edges and delicate skeletons,
they push to the forefront of consciousness;
greedy, needy and completely camouflaged
in the light of the cold January sky.
Your arrival is filled with promise.
Trees undress at nightfall,
we watch them silently and turn away.
To everyone in the U.S., Happy Thanksgiving.
I’ll be back next week.
Now that the leaves have left
and the sun has faded,
now that the nights are cold
and your skin is coarse,
are you lonely?
If I were a sweet little faerie
I’d live close to the forest leaves.
I’d lasso a lovely monarch
and fly free on the afternoon breeze.
The tree outside our balcony is changing,
although the days are still warm.
September steps forward,
and I bid it a peaceful welcome.
spanishwoods 